


The Murder Weapon

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Pre-Stetopher, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Touch-Starved, established petopher, implied suicidal ideation, not particularly Scott or Sheriff friendly, we are pretending that I know things about cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Is the murder weapon guilty?





	The Murder Weapon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delightful_I_Am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delightful_I_Am/gifts).



> I realized that I hit 1000 comments in my inbox a while ago, so I was like "I should write a 1000 word fic for my 1000th commenter!" who turned out to be Delightful_I_Am, and who is, in fact, utterly delightful. The request was for Stetopher with touch starved Stiles, which is a motherfuckin JAM and something I haven't done before so YAY!
> 
> Also: Lmao France whomst?

Is the murder weapon guilty?

It was a question Stiles thought about often these days.

On the surface, it seemed absurd. The weapon has no agency, of course it can’t be guilty. But if a terrible accident occurred with a kitchen knife that led to the death of someone, you probably wouldn’t keep the knife around. What do you do with the murder weapon? You’d throw it out. Just because the knife didn’t decide to have the accident doesn’t mean it wasn’t the key factor. The death still happened because of the knife.

The death still happened.

Allison was still dead.

Maybe the pack was throwing away the kitchen knife.

He couldn’t think of another reason he wasn’t informed of pack meetings unless he happened to be standing near someone else being told about one. Couldn’t think of another reason they all went out of their way to avoid touching him. Couldn’t think of another reason they would slowly and relentlessly pull away.

His skin was gathering dust, no longer anything of value to his friends and pack. You don’t hug the murder weapon. You don’t brush up against the murder weapon when you walk by. You don’t even allow your fingers to graze the murder weapon.

The murder weapon is guilty.

 

____________________

 

Stiles showed up at the meeting because he’d been standing behind Malia when Scott told her about it. Despite knowing he was verging on outright unwelcome, he couldn’t seem stop himself from trying.

He was trying to psych himself up to touch Malia’s shoulder on the pretense of asking a question or something, just to incite some physical contact, _any_ physical contact, when Peter walked in. He didn’t notice anything amiss until he heard Malia whisper _“what the fuck.”_ He looked up and froze.

Chris was there.

Holding hands with Peter, which must have been what prompted Malia.

Chris was there.

What do you do with the murder weapon?

Stiles started moving around the walls, silently making his way to the door.

 

____________________

 

Peter rolled his eyes at Malia’s whispered invective and put his file on the table. The sooner the Scooby Gang got what they needed, the sooner they could leave.

“There’s everything I have on sphinxes. If you’re still confused, feel free to call someone else,” he said, blasé. He and Chris turned toward the exit just in time to see Stiles edging out the door.

“Wait!” Scott called.

Stiles froze, looking back at the gathering with a blank face. Peter turned around as well, surprised to see that Scott was looking at him and not Stiles.

“You need to stay and help us!” Scott said indignantly. Peter looked curiously back at Stiles, who smelled strongly of relief before continuing out the door.

Chris was the one who sighed, and said “We have plans, Scott. Sphinxes are generally pretty calm. If there really is one in the forest, she’s probably just migrating. Good luck with whatever you end up doing.” Then he tugged a very willing Peter out of the house with him.

They both stepped onto the lawn just in time to hear Stiles’ Jeep fail to turn over.

“Sounds like your starter is shot,” Chris called with a furrow in his brow. He pulled Peter over to the Jeep. “Pop the hood.”

When nothing happened, Chris looked up to see Stiles staring at him, even more pale than usual.

“Stiles?” he prompted.

“Oh, uh-” Stiles lifted a hand from the steering wheel and Peter could see it shaking almost imperceptibly. The hood popped a second later.

As Chris poked around in the guts of the car, Peter meandered over to the driver side door.

“Ditching the pack meeting early?” he said lightly, watching Stiles’ reaction closely.

Stiles snorted and looked away. “Is it considered ditching if I wasn’t actually invited in the first place?” he said.

Peter frowned. His tone wasn’t angry or even bitter, just… tired.

“Yep, your starter is dead,” Chris called from beneath the hood. Stiles tensed again at the sound of his voice. “I have the tools to fix this at my place,” he said. “How about we call a tow to my house, and Peter and I can drive you to get the part? It’ll cost you a couple hundred to get it fixed at a shop, but the part by itself should only be about seventy.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open. Peter reached in the window to gently press his jaw closed with two fingers under his chin.

“He thinks that’s a great idea, darling,” Peter called to Chris, pulling his hand away only to hear a nearly silent whine from Stiles. He glanced back curiously to see Stiles blushing, mortified, and looking anywhere but Peter’s face.

“Uh-” Stiles began, but his voice stuck. He cleared his throat and tried again. “My starter-”

“Is junked,” Chris said bluntly, coming to stand next to Peter and pulling up the number for a tow company. “Hi, I need a Jeep towed to my house,” he said into his phone after a moment, raising his eyebrows at Stiles in question. Slowly, Stiles nodded, jaw set strangely.  

A minute and a half later, Stiles was seated in the back of Peter’s car. Twelve minutes after that they were in an O'Reilly Auto Parts, and thirty minutes after _that_ they were all in Chris’ garage with the Jeep.

Stiles had been quiet the entire time, responding to questions with single syllable answers when a nod or head shake wouldn’t do. With every move he got more and more visibly tense. Stiles had been shifting around agitatedly while Chris talked, explaining what he was doing and what Stiles might need to know the next time his car went to shit.

Eventually, Stiles blurted out “You’re really going to replace my starter first?”

Chris furrowed his brow, looking from Stiles to the inside of the car. “I thought so, yeah. Why, do you need an oil change too?”

“No- no, I-” Stiles’ words stopped as if gagged.

Peter, who had been sitting on the bench, ready to appreciate the floor show while they worked on the car, felt a sudden drop in his stomach. He thought back to what Stiles had said about the pack meeting. He got up from his seat to slowly approach, standing on the other side of Stiles who was staring at the starter blankly.

“Why do you think you’re here, Stiles?” Peter asked, quietly and honestly. It was a question that could easily have sounded bitchy or condescending, but it was clear that Peter really wanted to know what Stiles was thinking.

“I don’t- why are you helping me?” Two spots of color had appeared on Stiles’ cheeks. Not out of embarrassment this time, but born from agitation.

Chris was openly confused. “Because you need help and we’re in a position to provide it. You’re a good kid-”

“You don’t keep the murder weapon,” Stiles cut in loudly. “You don’t fix the murder weapon’s car. You don’t- you throw the murder weapon out! You get rid of it!” Stiles sounded desperate. For what, it wasn’t clear, but Peter had a terrible suspicion.

“You didn’t kill Allison,” Peter said clearly. On the other side of Stiles, he saw Christopher had gone pale.

“I’m still the reason she’s dead!” Stiles yelled, gripping the edge of the jeep’s body so tightly that Peter could smell bruises forming. “I’m still what killed her!”

“You’re not a ‘what,’” Chris said clearly, with such force that Stiles startled and looked up at him. His face was lined with sadness and distress. “You’re a ‘who,’ not a ‘what.’ Just because that _thing_ used you like a tool without your permission doesn’t mean you should continue to be treated like a tool, Stiles. You’re a person, and you’re not the reason she’s dead.”

“Then why-” Stiles’ voice choked off, and he just shook his head, biting his lip.

Peter reached over and gently pried Stiles’ hands away from the car, using his hold on them to pull Stiles close into his chest and wrap an arm around him. He could smell the tears before he felt the shudder and heard the quiet sob.

Stiles hid his face in the curve of Peter’s neck. He tensed when he felt Chris step up behind him, but Chris just embraced him from behind, sandwiching him in the most physical contact he’d had in months. Stiles shivered and melted.

Peter and Chris glanced at each grimly. This breakdown had clearly been a long time coming.

They stood there against the Jeep for a long time until Stiles finally pulled his red, splotchy face away from Peter’s neck. Peter took one look at him and began ushering him into the house.

“You need a shower. We can worry about the car later. Come on, into the house.”

Stiles was in somewhat of a daze, from both the crying and the sudden deluge of touch he’d been denied for so long. He lingered in the shower, zoning in and out, completely unclear about what was happening here except that Peter and Chris had told him to wash off the engine grease.

By the time he came out, dressed in some flannel pants of Chris’s and v-neck that must have belonged to Peter, Chris had also cleaned up and was waiting for him.

“Peter went to go pick up some groceries. He was thinking fajitas for dinner if that sounds good to you.”

“... am I staying for dinner?” Stiles questioned, still thrown from the complete turn around of how he’d expected today to go.

“Yes,” Chris said firmly. “Unless you have somewhere else you need to be, with someone who is going to look after you.”

Stiles bristled a bit at that. “I don’t need someone to look after me,” he protested.

Chris looked at him steadily. “You said ‘you throw the murder weapon out. You get rid of it.’ If you think of yourself as the murder weapon, Stiles, what did you think we were going to do once you got here?”

Stiles looked away.

Chris stepped up closer. “It’s okay to be taken care of Stiles. If I hadn’t had Peter to take care of me right after Allison… I needed someone then. You need someone now.” Chris looked at the dark smudges under Stiles’ eyes, and reached up to brush a thumb over them. Stiles immediately leaned into the touch. “Come on,” he said, sliding his hand to Stiles’ shoulder. “You could use some rest before dinner.”

Stiles hesitated when they reached the master bedroom, but Chris walked right in and pulled a couple of spare blankets up.

“You can take a nap in here; the couch is shit for sleep. Just give me a shout if you need something alright?” Just as he walked past Stiles to leave, he felt a hand snag on his shirt, tugging him back.

“If it’s okay to need someone…” Stiles said, clearly forcing the words out. “I need you. Will you just- stay in here while I sleep? Just like, sit next to me.”

His big brown eyes looked so ready to be denied. It broke Chris’ heart all over again. He nodded, and took Stiles’ hand from his shirt, leading him over to the bed.

Stiles climbed in first, stiff and flat on his back while Chris propped himself half up on the other side of the bed with a book. It only took a few minutes of uncomfortable shifting for Chris to reach out and place a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, feeling him calm immediately.

Inch by inch, Stiles slowly moved closer to Chris, almost as if he were trying to sneakily attach himself without scaring Chris away. Eventually he ended up plastered to his side, face tucked into his neck, laying on top of Chris’ arm that was wrapped around his shoulders, fast asleep.

He’d only been asleep for about ten minutes when Peter came home. He leaned against the doorway to the bedroom, taking in the scene. Chris' fingers drifted up and down Stiles' arm, bunching up beneath the short sleeve before running back down. Stiles clung tightly to him, even in his sleep.

It was something Peter could easily get used to seeing.

He carefully sat down on the other side of Stiles eventually, gently running a hand through his hair.

“He’s so touch starved,” Chris whispered to him. “How could this happen?”

Peter pursed his lips. “The pack must have been pushing him away for months. He’s basically an omega, on top of the trauma mess the nogitsune left behind.”

“Well where the fuck is his dad?” Chris said, heated enough that Stiles stirred. They both froze, waiting for him to settle back to sleep.

After a moment of silence, Peter whispered, “Sheriff Stilinski couldn’t handle the emotional repercussions of something as common as spousal death. How equipped do you think he is to handle this?”

As Chris silently fumed, Peter continued softly touching Stiles’ hair.

“We’re keeping him,” Chris eventually whispered.

“Obviously,” Peter said, and leaned over to kiss Stiles’ forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out I don't actually know what 1000 words means ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
